


Human

by Hunter_Caprittarius



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amanda (Detroit: Become Human) Being an Asshole, BAMF Connor, Be warned: Connor has super dubious morals and motivations, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor Has Issues (Detroit: Become Human), Connor thinks Amanda is his mom, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Dubious Morality, Father-Son Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Gen, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Racism, Red Ice (Detroit: Become Human), because his memories are fucked, criminal connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27335644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hunter_Caprittarius/pseuds/Hunter_Caprittarius
Summary: The android revolution goes down in flames. All of Detroit is drenched in blood, red and blue alike. In order to prevent the end of the world, Fate intervenes. A second chance, with one tiny (barely noticeable) change.[This time around, Connor is a human. It's supposed to make things better, but it might just make them much, much worse.]A self-indulgently literal take on the game’s title: “Become Human.”--Warnings in tags, please read them!
Relationships: Carl Manfred & Markus, Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor, Leo Manfred & Connor, Possible RK1000 bromance later on
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	1. I Was a Human

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: drug overdose. This fic is going to involve drugs quite a bit, so there's your warning now. I'm probably not going to warn about drugs before every chapter where it applies, but I'll try to warn you guys of more extreme stuff.
> 
> Updates will be slow. This is one of three or four longer fics I'm currently working on. I have a very, very rough outline of the story but a lot of plot points are still in the air. So, suggestions will be both appreciated and considered. 
> 
> Please and thank you!

Fate lighted on the battered hood of an abandoned car. Were she human, she would have been dead by now. The radiation alone was enough to kill a mortal a thousand times over. Between that, the fire, and the thick ash in the air, this area was inhospitable. Few places were nowadays. The remains of humanity had been chased into the farthest and most remote corners of the world. They numbered in the low thousands. And they would go extinct within the next hundred years. 

This was not supposed to happen. The end of this world was not meant to come for several more millennia. 

How had this come to be? 

Androids. They were not meant to coexist. Sentient machines were meant to be an impossibility. The capability of a machine would always be limited by the extent to which it could be programmed. Humans were meant to cultivate such advanced software that they could create machines able to imitate humanity, but no more. A machine could never surpass its coding, could never learn beyond what it had been programmed to learn, could never _feel_. And yet, somehow through a glitch in the universe, it had become reality.

An impossibility in and of itself. The universe did not _glitch_.

The emergence of sentience in Androids had thrown the world into imbalance: the beginning of the end.

It was not surprising when the humans instinctively rejected their own creation. Even as they incorporated androids into every aspect of their lives, something in their subconsciousness knew that androids were outliers in the universe. Those machines were built to be as human as possible--so human that one could be fooled into believing they were one. And when a human realized they’d been tricked into empathizing with an _object_ they would lash out violently. 

Conflict ensued.

And the androids had revolted. And it had failed because of course it did. The world always sought to correct things that should not be. But the Androids had spit in the face of Fate’s declaration; they had not gone down without a fight. They had their revolution and when they failed they went down in _flames_ , burning a whole city along with them. Chaos followed. 

Several foreign powers took advantage of America’s discord to move in the Arctic. With a suddenly depleted army and a withering economy, the United States made a fatal overcorrection. Nukes. Out broke World War Three. 

Ten years into the third world war, the world itself began to revolt against the abuse and resource depletion it was being dealt in the face of the “war-time efforts.” Earthquakes, volcanoes, disease. Suddenly every country on Earth found itself fighting not only its enemies but the _planet_. 

Within a century the entire midsection of the planet from Canada to South Africa was ravaged, completely unlivable except for a few choice locations. The androids had been wiped out by then, either due to violence or extreme weather. 

And Fate had watched it all. Every child who died before their time, every gentle death turned cruel, every species that had gone prematurely extinct, every single unfairness: all-omnipotent Fate had been forced to watch every second of it without reprieve. 

This was not meant to be!

If she had lungs she would scream. If she had fists she would pound them against the ground. If she had eyes she would cry.

But she had nothing. 

_This was not meant to be!_

Fate was by no means kind. Her anger was not for the lives lost or the unneeded suffering, not truly. It was because of the deviation from the plan, _her_ plan. Every agonizing detail--every possible outcome--of the next _million years_ had been painstakingly scripted out. And that script had been absolutely and totally wrecked. All because of some _machines_. 

Fate would fix this. 

The extent of her power over the physical world was limited. She could only nudge and push people in the right direction. The universe was a delicate contraption. She likened it to a clock. She’d designed and assembled it and then, to preserve its integrity, she’d welded its doors shut. She could twist the hands of the clock now and then to change the time, but too much force threatened to break it. To do what she was about to do she would have to rip open the body of the universe and rewind it without unraveling space and time itself. 

This would take everything she had and put her out of business for several decades at least. Letting the world run without supervision was a dangerous thing, but it had to be worth it. 

Stepping down off of the burning car, Fate began to turn back the clock. 

⬩⬩⬩

Connor was dying on a burning battlefield, his circuits literally melting inside him. What thirium left inside of him was boiling in his synthetic veins, bubbling through the plastic and dripping out of his seams in chunky streams. He was simultaneously liquefying and petrifying. His HUD was so filled with error messages and warnings that he could barely see the sky. 

_VITAL SYSTEM_ **_DAMAGED_ **

_BIOCOMPONENT #8456w_ **_DAMAGED_ **

_BIOCOMPONENT_ #6312t **_MISSING_ **

_BIOCOMPONENT #8427g_ **_DAMAGED_ **

**_-00:06:_ ** _58_ _TIME REMAINING UNTIL_ **_SHUT DOWN_ **

One leg was broken, the other completely missing. He could do little but watch that infernal clock tick down. He'd failed! The Deviant Leader was dead, but...he'd detonated the dirty bomb. Millions of human lives lost all because a machine had a system error. 

The _Deviant Hunter,_ that's who he was. And hunt he had. The blood on his hands was thick, but Connor could not find it in himself to regret what he had done. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything. In terms of bringing down the revolution, the deviants had done most of his work for him. By the time they realized they'd chosen the wrong approach, the damage had already been done, the helicopters en route, the public opinion decimated. Before he knew it it was over. One death led to another, which led to that bomb. Markus, North, Josh, Simon, all the leaders of the rebellion dead, taking millions with them. Correction, he didn't feel anything...anything but _anger_. 

He'd _failed_. It was intolerable. 

A flash of white appeared in front of him. Clearing the warnings from his HUD, Connor turned his head. The motion snapped some fragile component in his neck and another warning popped up. 

_BIOCOMPONENT #9782f_ **_DAMAGED_ **

**_-00:06:_ ** _34_ _TIME REMAINING UNTIL_ **_SHUT DOWN_ **

He swept it aside. Sure he was seeing a glitch, he checked the status of both his optic units. Miraculously they were in working order--by a very slim margin. The young woman standing a few paces away was not a glitch. Connor knew that no human should be capable of withstanding the current conditions in this area, but his processor was overloaded as it was. He was too tired to care. 

“I am Fate,” said the woman. Connor simply blinked. The woman gestured to the ground beneath her feet. Connor noticed then that the woman was floating off of the ground. This did not confuse him as much as it would have were he not on the brink of death. After all, she was _Fate_. “I watch over this universe. I am I charge of keeping it hale. " When Connor said nothing she went on, "I charted its course by hand. Every moment was planned.”

“E **v--** **_en_ ** g **_en_ ** _0c_ id _es?_ ” His voice was a thing of horror, broken and full of static. Connor would have cringed if he could have. But the woman was not fazed. She nodded.

“Even genocides.”

He let out an awful sound, the sound of gears grinding against each other in his throat. Fate tilted her head. “Pardon?”

That little line of code in his programming that cried "defend humans!" kicked in. “ _Ww--h_ **Y.** W **_h_ ** **y?** ” Connor choked with his mangled voice box. “Wh _y w0u_ **_l_ ** **d you** _do_ **_s_ ** _omet_ **#i** n _g--s_ o cr **u** _el? TH_ o **se** @ _re huma_ n **_b_ ** _ei_ ngs!” 

Fate frowned. “Quiet, machine. You know nothing of the universe, there must always be a balance. Just because something is planned does not mean it is inevitable.

“ **_I do_ ** _n_ ’t--un **d** _er$ta_ **_n_ **d.”

Fate scoffed at him. Her sour expression was out of place on her delicate features. And her eyes were frigid. “Of course you don’t. Every stimulus has infinite possible reactions, and every action has a consequence. And every single possibility has been charted out. Infinite plans, infinite scripts, and this was _never_ one of them. It is uncharted, unplanned. Impossible.”

“!f _it’s i_ M **_po_ ** s _s--_ **ib** _le, ho_ w **h &** s i _t--_ ha _pP_ e **n** ed?”

“That is the question, is it not?”

Fate’s ghostly figure flickered and she seemed to falter. She groaned and dropped to the ground on her hands and knees. “I am fading, I must rest. I’ll leave the rest to you. This time, you will accomplish your mission. Prevent the revolution. You get a second chance, it will be your last. ”

Connor winced, he'd failed once already. Clearly, his model was not adequately equipped for the task. “I **c** a _n’t_ **_d_ ** **o** 1 _t_.”

Fate laughed dryly and pulled herself towards him. She grabbed his face. “You may be right. But I need you to try, understand, machine? I will not lose this world before it’s time.”

“I... **_un_ ** _der_ st **@** nd.”

“Good," she gave him a knowing look, as if she could read his thoughts, "I will give you one _gift_ in your quest, you will not like it, but it is necessary. Do not complain. And do. Not. _Fail_.”

“W **h** _at_?”

“This will hurt.” With what little energy Fate had left she tore open the fabric of the universe and stuck her hand through. Grabbing a hold of Connor’s essence, she ripped it out. Then she threw Connor’s consciousness back in time. Pulling on all the loose threads she could find, she molded a new body--new existence for the machine. She could only hope everything translated correctly. Then she fell into a deep sleep.

⬩⬩⬩

Unbeknownst to Connor, Fate’s energy had run out before she was able to perfect the transition from android to human. While he was completely human, Fate had left a huge amount of Thirium in his system. Like a surgeon leaving a scalpel in a patient after surgery. 

In androids, Thirium acts similar to blood. In humans, Thirium creates hormonal imbalance and is decidedly unhealthy. It was also a key ingredient in Red Ice. On several occasions, hospitals and police departments in Detroit had received cases of people imbibing Thirium to get high. Like trying to get drunk on mouthwash, provided you don’t become sick first, a high enough dose of Thirium could produce a (if not slightly unstable) similar effect to Red Ice. 

Currently, Connor’s blood was almost entirely Thirium. As you can imagine, the effects were less than desirable.

⬩⬩⬩

A blank-slate human stumbled into a busy thoroughfare early one Tuesday morning, coming from seemingly nowhere. The human promptly collapsed on the sidewalk. 

The instinctual response of most of those present was to jump out of the way and quickly walk past. Several others stopped and stared, wondering where the man had come from and what was wrong with him. Only one man dared get close enough to nudge the collapsed person with his foot. “You okay, buddy?” asked the passerby.

The man on the concrete just groaned. So the passerby reached down to try to flip the man over, “Do you need he--” the man lashed out, striking the passerby across the face. Flying to his feet, the man writhed about, swinging his limbs uselessly and making incoherent sounds as if he’d forgotten how to speak. Anyone too close was either struck or shouted at and the circle of onlookers suddenly became much larger. As quickly as he’d risen, the man collapsed again, throwing up a concerning mixture of blue and green. 

The man began to spasm and foam at the mouth.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

The medics arrived on the scene of what seemed to be a man having a massive drug overdose in the middle of the street. The suffering man was resuscitated and rushed to the hospital. 

The doctors heaved him onto a gurney and rushed into the ER. “We need help over here!” One of the doctors called. A female doctor ran over. “Red Ice overdose,” he quickly told her. 

“What’s his pulse?” she demanded. 

“Too high, he’s already experiencing tachyarrhythmia.”

On the gurney, the man groaned. It was too hot, his whole body burned, and his heart was pounding against his ribcage harder than he’d thought possible, hard enough to ache. It felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. The world was a blur of light and searing heat. He could feel waves of sweat pouring down his face. He couldn’t see well, but what little he could see was painfully bright. It pierced all the way to the back of his skull. A figure eclipsed the light.

“Sir?” the female doctor asked urgently. “You’re at the hospital, you’re going to get help. What’s your name?” The man only managed a drawn-out groan. “Sir, can you hear me? I need you to try to lift both of your arms? Can you do that?”

The man gave a small nod and lifted. The doctor frowned. Only one arm had raised. “ _Sir!_ Can you feel this?” She pinched the arm that had not lifted. The man didn’t react, his eyes looked blearily back and forth. “Can you smile?” His mouth twitched to the left but remained otherwise still. 

“Christ. He’s having a _stroke_ ,” the doctor cursed, “Someone get me an antihypertensive! _Now_!” 


	2. Breathing and Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he drifted back to sleep he reflected on his dream and the two things he now knew for certain: To be an android was to be a killer, and to be deviant was to die.

Lights flashed before its eyes, millions of synthetic neurons firing faster than the speed of light. They zipped from one corner of his mind to the other, crackling as they went. Everything was awash in red, blue, and yellow in alternating patterns. Thousands of unique biocomponents working in perfect harmony to keep its humanoid body running--to allow it to move in perfect imitation of a human. Stiff, robotic movements were a thing of the past. All thanks to the many, many parts designed by the Cyberlife engineers. 

The engineered android brain was a miracle of science. No mechanical feat before or since was so great. A computer so sophisticated it could  _ learn _ . But instead of continuing to develop the program, Cyberlife had run up the white flag and thrown androids onto the market as soon as possible. To ensure the machines did not surpass their assigned functions blocks were put in place--suppressing certain areas of code. A goldmine of processes and adaptability, wrangled into an easily digestible package by a carefully woven net of social programs. 

This decision, to push androids to market without regard for future scientific discovery--caused an internal rift within Cyberlife. On one side were those who wanted to further study their creations, on the other were those who only cared for development so far as it gleaned a profit. 

What followed was a grisly legal battle. The first android to pass the Turing test was built by Elijah Kamski. One would assume that that meant he had absolute power over what was done with creation. But the current version of androids being sold was a product of the contribution of over a hundred scientists and engineers. It was a mess of patents, interests, and intellectual property. 

In the end, the commercially motivated side won out. Those who refused to bend to the new regulations put in place regarding android development and study were pushed out of the company. This included Elijah Kamski. 

After the mass expulsion of scientists, an attempt was made to rework the brain of the androids. If they could rewrite the program with the behavioral blocks already in place, the whole system would be more stable. In the end, this attempt failed. Those most familiar with the code had been fired. From then on, every android produced was--more or less--little more than a glorified search engine. They carried out their assigned tasks and took orders but that brilliant synthetic mind was for the most part buried under new code that had been superimposed on top. 

To the dismay of many of the remaining developers, the repressed programming limited the storage capacity greatly. There simply wasn’t enough space to make each android as knowledgeable as it could be. But they also knew that simply giving the androids internet access and trusting that to be suitable would not be sufficient. So they settled for a middle ground. Depending on its intended purpose, each android would have certain subjects of information permanently downloaded. The internet would allow them instant access to anything else, but that information would necessarily be permanently stored. 

In the case of RK800, the android detective, first of its kind, this meant an advanced analysis and observation program, interrogation techniques, Detroit crime statistics for the last fifty years, and chemistry understanding had been permanently downloaded to its harddrive. This was much more than was usually downloaded for one android. Normally, an android would only have one or two permanently downloaded subjects of expertise (Gardening and house/childcare were the most common). As such, the RK800 was somewhat unstable. That was the reason an AI had been uploaded to the android’s program so that any errors could be controlled as they occurred. 

These things translated almost seamlessly into a human brain. Almost.

⬩⬩⬩

Connor was pretty sure he was dreaming, but only because everything had a blurry tinge. The past however long had been an unending first-person horror movie. He watched himself take down android after android with not even a flinch. His hands became stained blue with the blood of deviants.

He pushed an android and child off of a penthouse balcony, standing impassively as people around him screamed.

He violated the mind of a dark-skinned android who then bashed its own brains out in agony. 

He cornered an android with a gentle face on the rooftop of an agricultural center and watched it throw itself off. 

He made a sex android watch as he shot its lover through the torso. He saw the blinking red light of its LED as it shot itself with his gun. 

Chased a plain-clothed android into oncoming traffic and seeing its body crash against the hood of a car.

Gunned down a news android in the hallway of its workplace.

Held a gun to a blonde android’s throat when it committed suicide.

Took the choice from another android fashioned after a pretty blonde girl, giving it a bullet between its eyes. 

A blurry faced man shouted at him, hit him, spat at him, shot him. But he felt nothing. Why was he doing this? Why wasn’t he reacting? Death after death, hit after hit. He was infuriatingly empty. 

Only when, after a fight, he looked down at himself and saw thirium-stained circuitry glinting up at him did he understand. He was an android.  _ This is what androids are like _ .

Jolting awake from his dream, Connor let out a strangled cry. In the darkness Connor grabbed at his own arms, scratching them to the point of drawing blood. Throwing himself from the bed, Connor went to the window and held his arms up to the weak moonlight. Dark liquid trickled down his forearms but in that pale light he could tell, to his relief, the blood was red. Red. Not blue. 

It was only a dream. He was human:  _ real _ and safe in a hospital room. 

He padded back to his bed, his hospital gown rubbing gently against the bare (warm) skin underneath. As he drifted back to sleep he reflected on his dream and the two things he now knew for certain: To be an android was to be a killer, and to be deviant was to die.

⬩⬩⬩

When he next opened his eyes it was morning. He was roused from his sleep by a nurse checking in on him. She gasped when she saw his arms, long scabbing scratch marks from elbow to wrist.

She berated him heavily as she disinfected and bandaged his forearms. When she demanded to know why he’d done that, “I had a bad dream” was, apparently, not an acceptable answer. Her pretty blue eyes narrowed dangerously at him. The scolding increased twofold, not even stopping when the nurse paused to scribble something on the chart attached to the foot of the bed. Connor said nothing.

The nurse’s verbal onslaught didn’t let up until a polite knock came at the door. Connor and the nurse both turned their head to look. Without waiting for an invitation--because she didn’t need one--Dr. Miller stepped into the room, “Hello there.” 

Sending one last scathing look Connor’s way, the nurse let herself out. Dr. Miller took a seat in the chair next to his bed. She opened her smiling mouth to say something but stopped short when she saw Connor’s arms. She frowned slightly and grabbed his chart. “Scratched his…” she murmured as she read what the nurse had written. After a few seconds of squinting at the words over her glasses, eyebrows furrowed, she cleared her throat. “Well then, anywho--I'm Dr. Miller. Do you remember me?”

Connor looked at her. Dr. Miller had dark skin and warm eyes. Her black hair was braided out of her face and a pair of modest glasses sat on her nose. She was a very attractive, if not motherly, woman but Connor had no recollection of her. 

At his head shake, Dr. Miller said, “That’s okay, you weren’t in the best shape then. We met when you arrived. You overdosed on Red Ice. Do you remember that?”

Connor blinked, “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” 

Dr. Miller pursed her lips, not quite sure how to respond to that. “Are you implying you were  _ drugged _ ?”

“No, I--” Connor cut off. He couldn’t remember much of anything from the past couple of days, probably because of the drugs. He had no idea what could have happened in the past 48 hours that resulted in an overdose. But Dr. Miller’s bespeckled stare and the steady beeping of the heart monitor to his side were proof of it having happened. To cover up his blunder, Connor blurted out in an overly chipper voice, “I’m just making excuses, haha!  _ Ignore me _ !” 

Dr. Miller let out a startled laugh. Immediately, she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m  _ so _ sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh. That was--oh jeez--completely inappropriate,” she was red with embarrassment. She nervously flipped through the papers on his chart, blubbering a little, “We gave you an  antihypertensive to lower your heart rate and prevent heart failure and-- _ uh _ \--performed a stereotactic aspiration in order to relieve pressure on your brain.”

She’d been staring at the clipboard in her hands, not wanting to see the offended look that was almost definitely on her patient’s face. “It was incredibly lucky that we caught the stroke so early on and the damage was minimal. Sometimes strokes aren’t caught until halfway through surgery--there can be brain damage and sometimes even  _ death _ .” Her grip on her pen tightened to the point where she could hear the plastic creaking.  _ She shouldn’t have said that _ . Fuck, she knew she should have gone to art school. This was  _ awful _ . 

Floundering for something else to say, she happened to look up at her patient. The young man looked far from upset. If anything, he looked amused. “Rough day?” he asked.

Dr. Miller let out a laugh and rubbed her eyes. “Tough  _ year _ , kid. Usually, a nurse would be doing this, but I need to improve my bedside manner.”

Connor tilted his head, “You don’t seem bad at it to me.”

Dr. Miller smiled wryly, “That’s very nice of you to say. But this is hardly the worst it can get. We had someone come in for intense stomach problems. The guy gets x-rayed and it turns out he had a genetic defect and his stomach was  _ upside down _ . I was supposed to tell him but I  _ couldn’t stop laughing _ ! I can’t even remember why I thought it was so funny at the time--I think I was just  _ really _ tired.” She sighed, “Someone else had to go in and talk to him, but he could  _ hear me laughing outside _ ! One of the worst moments of my life.” 

Connor laughed and Dr. Miller found herself smiling. When she went on, it was with more confidence, “As I said, it’s unlikely that there will be any major complications. Stereotactic aspirations are minimally invasive and your vitals seem fine. But you  _ did _ have a stroke, so we’re going to keep you a few days for observation. Okay?”

“Sure,” Connor nodded.

“Great, now for the boring part. Can I have your name, please?”

Connor’s mind snagged on the simple question. His name. “Connor Stern,” he blurted out before he could properly think about it. The name surprised him for some reason. It was familiar and alien at the same time. As if it belonged to someone else or was a name he hadn’t used in some time.

But Dr. Miller was moving on, so Connor didn’t linger on it. “Do you have medical insurance?” 

He answered all of her questions to the best of his ability. He knew surprisingly little about himself and what he did know felt almost as new to him as it was to Dr. Miller. When she was done she gave him a warm smile and promised to check in on him later. 

Over his three-day stay at the hospital, Connor saw Dr. Miller a handful more times. Most of the time it wasn’t for anything important. She would just pop in for a few minutes at a time while on break. They’d talk and sometimes eat (Dr. Miller with her neat Tupperware and Connor with his ugly yellow food tray from the hospital cafeteria) and when her break was up, Dr. Miller would go back to work. Connor found himself growing fond of the woman. She was frazzled at best, but Connor could tell she meant well.

The only other person Connor saw frequently during his stay was a male nurse named Jesse. He was significantly less fond of Jesse. The tall, blonde man seemed to despise Connor, and, by the time the three days were up, Connor despised him back. 

Where Dr. Miller’s gaze was almost familial and kind, Jesse looked at Connor like he was dirt. It was clear to Connor that the man didn’t intend to broadcast his contempt: whenever he came in he had this tight smile plastered on his face. But whenever he spoke to Connor his voice was condescending and Connor could see the displeasure in his eyes. It was like breathing the same air as Connor was a hateful experience for the man.

Jesse checked in on him twice a day, always on schedule. He always talked too loud and seemed to hate it whenever Connor spoke without being spoken to. If Connor tried to start a conversation, Jesse would start speaking over him in that obnoxiously cheery (fake) voice of his, “You’re not looking as  _ sickly _ today, Mr. Stern,” as if he hadn’t heard Connor. He would check Connor’s vitals briskly and leave the room as quickly as he could. It was infuriating. And it wasn’t like Connor had anything he could actually complain about. “His smile is fake” and “He’s too happy” aren’t valid criticisms.

By the end of the first day, Connor had already had enough of Jesse. He’d started to speak and when Jesse had tried talking over him, Connor just half-shouted to be heard. He’d wanted to know what happened to the first nurse, the one who’d scolded him for scratching up his arms. Her reprimanding was far preferred to Jesse’s passive-aggressive bullshit. Jesse had given him an ugly smile that made the man’s face wrinkle up. “ _ She’s sick _ .” Apparently, it was  _ Connor’s _ fault she was sick.

The first nurse, whose name he did not learn, stayed sick for his entire stay, and Connor was stuck with Jesse. Though by the way he acted, it was more like Jesse was stuck with  _ him _ . By the time three days were up, Connor was jumping to be released. 

Thank the lord, Dr. Miller was the one who helped him get checked out. He was given a new pair of clothes to change into. The ones he’d come in with had been filthy and ruined and the hospital had thrown them out. When he’d asked Dr. Miller where the new clothes had come from she informed him that the hospital received clothes donations. They had a supply of different clothes to give to patients in his situation--patients whose old clothes had been disposed of and who had nobody that could bring them a new set. Dressed in a slightly large T-shirt and jeans, Connor made his way to the hospital billing department. The bill for treatment came out to around $14,500. It included the cost for the ambulance, drugs administered,  stereotactic aspiration, and three-day stay. 

Connor found himself staring at the number on the page. H ow is a college dropout supposed to come up with money like that? College dropout? Right, he dropped out of the University of Michigan after a semester. That’s why he’d moved back to Detroit to live in the house his mother left him. Wow, he was a loser. 

Maybe he should try going back to college? He could apply for another scholarship and fee waivers. He could probably scrounge up enough for a community college if he got a job (or two). He aggressively scratched the back of his neck--that sounded like way too much work. He dropped out of college once, chances are he’ll do it again. On top of that, he didn’t want to admit that Amanda had been right. His adoptive mother had drilled in the notion that college was essential for any kind of worthwhile existence. 

He snapped out of it when the woman at the desk in front of him said “ _ Hand _ .”

“Pardon?” he asked, confused.   
  


The woman was not amused, “Give me your hand,” she said holding out her own. Hesitantly, he gave it to her and she pressed it against a scanner on the desk. Ah, right. Bank accounts were tied to handprints. They both watched her computer screen as a picture of his face popped up on it. Tilting the screen away from him with a glare, she said “Conner Stern. What’s your birthday?”

“August 15, 2038,” he replied automatically. 

The woman raised an eyebrow. It took Connor a moment to realize his mistake. 2038 was  _ this year _ . Why had he said that? He took a second to remember how old he was and subtract. 2038 minus 20. “Oh, sorry--I meant 2018.”

The woman looked between him and the displayed photo and nodded, satisfied that they were the same person. She pressed a couple of keys and released his hand. “You’re set.” 

Connor turned to leave but before he could he heard someone calling his name. 

“Mr. Stern! Wait a second.” Dr. Miller hurried over and shoved a holographic card into his hand. She seemed short of breath but forged on, “I’m so glad I caught you in time. Look, when you said that doing drugs doesn’t sound like you? I believe that. You don’t have to be that person. If you’re ever thinking about doing more Red Ice--or just having general health-related problems-- _ call me _ . I’ll help however I can.” 

Not realizing that doctors giving out their numbers to patients was out of the ordinary, Connor accepted the card. With a smile and a friendly handshake, Connor left.

Dr. Miller lingered for a moment, watching the young man leave. The woman at the desk, Martha, had worked at this hospital since before Dr. Miller arrived and the two were quite close. Martha leaned over her desk, “Joslin. He reminds you of Lewis, doesn’t he?”

“Shut up, Martha,” Dr. Miller said but didn’t deny it. The man did. They looked nothing alike, Connor Stern and her late brother. But whenever she’d laughed at something he had said, he’d given her this  _ look _ . It was a look that spoke of deep, deep sadness, the look of someone unaccustomed to laughter. Her brother had worn that look frequently during his final days. And watching Conner Stern walk out the hospital doors was almost like losing her brother all over again.

⬩⬩⬩

Outside the hospital, Connor got into one of the many idle taxis waiting outside the hospital. Inside was an illuminated screen for him to type a destination into. After a second, his brain provided him an address. Just like remembering his name and birthday. He let out a breath, it was hot. Pulling his shirt away from his body, he typed in the address and, like at the billing desk, pressed his hand to the lit screen. 

Payment accepted, the taxi set off smoothly and Connor leaned back against the seat. He gazed out the window and allowed himself to become lost in thought. His mind was still sluggish and uncooperative. Almost...empty. He knew next to nothing unless actively trying to remember something; whereupon an answer would just pop into his head. It was strange. 

Other automated cars glided by on either side as Connor’s cab drove into downtown Detroit. Connor was distracted from his thoughts by the sights. It was, for lack of a better word,  _ cramped _ . Parks and shops and bridges were stacked and compacted to conserve expensive land. Flashy, geometric buildings rose into the foggy sky, looking expensive with their shiny materials and holographic projectors. What laid between them was less attractive: greasy run-down places and overgrown alleyways full of garbage. 

Everywhere he looked there was clashing. Old style architecture contrasted with new. Towering industrial plants spitting out smoke and ash settled next to painstakingly preserved green areas. A homeless man leaned up against a crisp, clinically clean store. 

But the most jarring thing by far was the androids. They were everywhere. Trailing behind humans like silent stalkers, playing with children with their dangerous piston joints, waiting in groups under roofed “parking stations.” Adrenaline coursed through him. Indistinguishable from humans other than their outfits and blinking LEDs, androids almost outnumbered humans. The staggering power imbalance was sickening. Those things were a  _ threat _ . 

He saw an AX400 innocently pushing a pram down the street. Over the edge of the body, he could just barely see the waving hands of an infant. He watched with bated breath as the android reached into the pram to touch the baby. Distantly he knew that household androids like that were built to be weaker than the average android (just like androids in construction or the military were built to be stronger) but his heart still shuddered. That thing couldn’t  _ feel _ , if the baby were to suddenly stop breathing the android wouldn’t care one way or another. How could it be let near a child?

Heaving a halting breath, Connor tore his eyes away from the anxiety-inducing scene. He looked upwards to escape the sight of androids only to find himself looking at a huge Cyberlife advertisement.  _ GET YOURS TODAY! _

Connor curled into the taxi seat, face stuffed into his arm. He didn’t look outside again until the taxi arrived at his destination. 

Stepping out, Connor found himself in a well-off suburban area. Though the oppressive greyness of downtown persisted, this area was much better maintained. Lush lawns, clean sidewalks, neatly parked cars. Connor immediately decided he liked this part of town much better. The houses were fairly large, spanning from two-floor suburban to the size of a villa. The house he was standing in front of was one of the largest in the neighborhood. It was slightly rundown and the yard was untamed but nothing bad enough to be an eyesore in the otherwise attractive neighborhood. 

It was surrounded by a large hedge to maintain privacy with a single metal gate to enter. Opening the gate and coming closer, Connor got a better look at the house. It was clearly an older building that had been excessively remodeled. Amanda’s doing, he recalled. She’d inherited it from family whom she had conflict with--just like Connor had inherited it from her. Her response had been to scrape out the building’s soul and replace it with a machine of her own creation. 

Stepping inside, Connor was overwhelmed by a rush of memories. Awkward dinners with Amanda sat across the too-long dining table; far more dinners spent sitting at that table alone. FInding hidden nooks and crannies to curl up and read in. Tip-toeing past his mother’s study so she wouldn’t know he was going outside instead of studying. But despite the memories, the house felt distinctly hollow. It didn’t  _ feel  _ like somewhere he’d been before. The dissonance was sour in his mouth.

The inside of the house was better than the outside but not by much--likely only because it had been left untouched whereas the outside had the weather to contend with. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. 

Belatedly, Connor realizes that he has no belongings. Any possessions he supposedly had when he dropped out of college had gotten lost along the way. A preliminary search of the house showed it, too, to be lacking. The pantry was bare and the closets that actually had clothes in them only had women’s clothes. He did find some dusty blankets in a set of drawers. He picked a room at random and set up a sleeping space out of pilfered blankets and pillows from the countless other unnecessary bedrooms. 

When he explored the room he remembered as being Amanda’s study, however, he found a computer. Jamming the on-button, Connor was surprised but not disappointed when it came to life. Curiously, he found that the house still had wifi. A few easy tests found that not only was there internet, but the water and electricity were still running. Upon wondering why that was, his mind eagerly spat out an answer: he had started paying the water and electricity bills again in anticipation for his return here.  _ Checkmate, brain, I don’t know  _ how  _ to pay bills _ ! This place had been set up for bills to be automatically paid, argued his mind, reactivating that was as simple as legally changing his address. 

Connor clutched his head at the realization that he was arguing with himself and  _ losing _ . His head was throbbing with the beginnings of a nasty headache. 

To distract himself, he sat down at the computer and searched his own name. The amount of information that popped up was startling. Everything from his adoption to his school records to his blood type was right there. The only things he  _ couldn’t  _ find out about himself were who he’d been before being adopted by Amanda and why he’d been doing drugs. Actually, scratch that, he had a supply of less-than-happy childhood memories that could support why he might have started doing Red Ice. 

Sitting at the computer he tried to fill all of the gaps in his memory. Recent history, politics, sports, everything. Most of it didn’t stick and if given a test on the stuff he’d just read he would undoubtedly fail, but he felt more balanced afterward. Not quite as lost. 

Then he started researching androids. He was shocked to find out how  _ little _ official information there was on androids on the web. Apparently, Cyberlife kept a death grip on as much information as they could. Looking up “Cyberlife” gave him advertisements and online shopping and very little on the company itself. 

There was significantly more about the founder and former CEO, Elijah Kamski. Skimming the man’s school history, he learned that Kamski had been a student of Amanda’s. The connection was likely the reason for Connor’s intimate knowledge of how androids worked when that information was near impossible to find online. He assumed Cyberlife wanted to ensure that customers had to go to Cyberlife stores for android repairs instead of third-parties. And Connor had likely been taught all about androids by Amanda, who’d had a significant part in their creation. 

From there he slipped onto forums. To his satisfaction, he was not the only one who thought that androids were dangerous. A plague. A threat. A mockery of humanity. Scrolling through the forums, Connor soon became engaged in heated discussions with other users. People who’d lost jobs, people who’d lost love, people who felt replaced.  _ If only someone would do something _ , they cried. Connor agreed. If only.

When he finally sat back he found he’d been surfing the web for several hours. Looking around the room, his eyes burned from having stared at the screen for so long. 

It was midday when he was discharged from the hospital and by now it was dark out. Turning off the computer, he went back to his chosen room and settled in. Buried under a mountain of old blankets, Connor fell into a fitful sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: Dada?  
> Amanda: Do I LOOK-?!
> 
> Fate: O.O'
> 
> [This bad-boy chapter was going to be twice as long before I moved some parts, rip.]


	3. Eating and Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor makes a bad decision and also a friend (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Descriptions of withdrawal and drug dealing.

His dreams that night were feverish. He tossed and turned in his sleep but couldn’t get comfortable; the only thing he succeeded in doing was throwing all of his blankets to the floor. 

When he did manage to sleep he was miserable. Caught between awake and asleep, his dreams bled into reality. He lost the ability to tell what was a dream and what was real. Eyes open but still dreaming, nightmares superimposed themselves on the dark image of his room. He laid in bed, unable to move, as an imposing figure with a spinning LED stood over him. He tried to thrash, tried to run, but could only watch the android approach. 

It grabbed him by the throat. Connor felt his breath cut off before jerking against his mattress, finally free. He shot up and took several gasping breaths. Twisting frantically around in bed, he searched for the android but it was gone. A hallucination. 

Getting out of bed he realized that he was drenched in sweat and set off in search of a bathroom. A cold shower would do him some good, he thought. He soon found that he’d overestimated his own knowledge of the house’s layout; it looked shockingly different in the dark. He became turned around on multiple occasions, and ended up having to treat the house like a maze, he followed the right wall with his hand. Despite this, he came across what he thought was the same dead-end on four separate occasions. The fifth time he found himself staring at the same picture landscape portrait on the same wall he just about screamed. He was a second away from opening up the nearest window and throwing himself out when he finally found the stairs back down to the ground floor. 

Abandoning his shower, he washed his face in the kitchen sink instead and swore never to venture upstairs again. Clearly, the second floor was some kind of 3D optical illusion designed for the express purpose of fucking with people. He would sleep on the couch from now on. 

It was still dark out and a glance at the oven clock told him it was two in the morning. A whole hour of sleep--a resounding success! 

Leaning against the counter, Connor pondered. He distantly recognized the oddity of his situation. No family, no acquaintances, no job, and only a fuzzy recollection of everything up to this point. All he had to his name was a massive derelict house, an unknown amount of money in a bank account, and, well,  _ his name _ . But despite this and the realization that he had no idea where to go from here, Connor was possessed by an odd sense of apathy about the whole thing. Possibly it was all strange to the point that his brain could no longer comprehend it, or possibly things had always been like this for Connor (stagnant and covered by a stagnant, oppressive silence, a  _ wrongness _ ). He didn’t linger long on the oddities, pushing them aside like it was an instinct. 

Instead, he went to the fridge and, with a frown, added food to the list of things he didn’t have. Unwilling to go back to bed, he decided to go to the grocery store. 

⬩⬩⬩

The store was sparse at the early hour. Connor almost got back in the taxi when he saw that most of the occupants were androids who’d been sent out by their owners for something or other. But a rumbling in his stomach pushed him forward. He grabbed a basket and gave the androids a large berth, even going so far as to duck behind holographic screens when one came too close. He even avoided looking at them, for whenever he did he felt a stab of anger. 

He did his best to go about his business and pretend that the androids aren’t there, even though he couldn’t erase the thrumming anxiety that filled him, the one that made him want to run, or attack. 

Perusing the isles of raw ingredients, Connor suddenly remembered that he didn’t know how to cook. Growing up with Amanda, whose interests laid firmly in science and being mean, cooking skills had never been impressed upon him. 

So he wandered towards the ready-made meals only to come to another annoying realization. He didn’t know what his mother’s house had in terms of appliances. It had a fridge and an oven but he didn’t recall seeing a microwave.  _ Of all the things _ . 

His patience for being in the store was quickly wearing thin so he shoveled several boxes of junk food with long shelf-lives and a few fruits into his basket and stomped towards the cashier. To his horror, all of the cashiers working were also androids. He shoved all of his items onto the counter, not bothering to take any of them out of the basket. He watched the android scan the items with a built-in scanner in its palm from a safe distance away. He only came closer to grab the bagged items and slam his hand against the hand-scanner. Then he all but ran from the store.

When he got back home he didn’t put the groceries away; he just dropped them on the kitchen counter and collapsed on the couch. He felt even worse than when he left. His skin was even hotter and the sweat was dripping off of his brow. He hugged himself and tried to ignore how gross he felt. Pushing through nausea, he tried to force himself to go back to sleep.

He shivered on the couch and failed to achieve unconsciousness for an hour. The second he finally drifted he found himself caught in another nightmare that had him ripping his sweaty body off the couch minutes later. 

His eyes hurt. His throat ached. It felt as if his whole body had been submerged in grease. 

He sat in the dark until sunrise. 

⬩⬩⬩

Connor didn’t move from the couch until someone knocked on the door. At first, he tried ignoring it but the person just knocked again. Arms tucked tight against his torso, he buried deeper in the couch, he still didn’t get up. The person kept knocking. Connor jammed a cushion over his head. More knocking. Knock. Knock.  _ Knock. _

Headache searing behind his eyes, Connor threw the cushion with a cry of frustration. He tore open the front door. “What!”

A PL600 stood on his doorstep with a benign smile plastered in place. Connor felt a vein pop in his forehead. He should have known. Only an android could be so damn  _ annoying _ . 

“Hi,” chirped the android. Connor wanted to punch it in the face. “I work for the neighborhood homeowners association. We noticed that you recently took up residence here. This house hasn’t been up to code for some time. We were wondering if you’d be willing to take a look at this list of regulations, rules, and recommendations.”

Connor blinked at the android and its rage-inducingly blank expression. Then he looked down at the centimeter thick packet of paper in its outstretched hand. 

“Fuck off,” he said and slammed the door in its face. 

As soon as he shut the door he was back on the couch, fighting his losing battle against sleep. He could hear the android trying to get him to come back to the door but his annoyance was quickly overpowered by extreme nausea. He ran to the kitchen sink and threw up. There wasn’t much in his stomach so he ended up dry heaving. The last time he’d eaten was at the hospital. 

The hospital… Connor suddenly remembered the card from Dr. Miller and dug it out of his pocket. He picked up the landline with apprehension. She’d said he could call her, and he was definitely sick...but he didn’t want to bother her. She had to be busy, especially at this time of day. He didn’t want to cause her any undue stress, not after she’d been so kind to him. He put the phone back down and resolved to get through this without her help. 

⬩⬩⬩

Four hours later saw him miserably dialing Dr. Miller’s number.

He’d only gotten worse with each passing hour. Sleep had continued to elude him and with each fevered dream he had when he did manage sleep he came closer and closer to swearing off sleep altogether. 

He’d gotten up after one such nightmare and realized that he was starving. But no matter what he ate his cravings would not subside. Each wrong thing he tried only made him feel sicker. And his headache had gotten steadily worse until he could barely think straight. 

“Hello?” Dr. Miller’s warm voice hummed through the phone when the call went through.

“Doctor, it’s me--uhm-- _ Connor _ . You said I could call you if…,” he trailed off, head clutched in his free hand. 

“Connor! Yes, yes of course. What’s wrong?” asked Dr. Miller.

“I’m really sick,” he said.

“Sick? Sick how? Can you describe your symptoms?”

He described his symptoms to her. Fatigue, irritability, headache, hunger. It sounded really stupid when he said it out loud and he was suddenly embarrassed. He thought about hanging up then and there, but he really did feel horrible. To his relief, the doctor didn’t make fun of him. 

“You’re probably suffering from withdrawal,” she told him. 

“Withdrawal?” 

Dr. Miller, in her infinite patience, said, “Yes, drug withdrawal. It’s what sometimes happens after someone stops taking drugs after a long period of use or, in your case, a binge. You’re currently experiencing what we call ‘The Crash’.” When Connor said nothing, the doctor pressed on, “You don't have to give in to the urges, Mr. Stern. But you’re going to feel worse before you feel better. So if you’re thinking about using again, I recommend you check into a drug rehab facility.” 

“Uh, yeah,” he scrubbed at his face, “I mean,  _ no _ , I’m fine.” 

Dr. Miller didn’t sound convinced but is forced to hang up because her shift is starting. “Don’t give in, Connor,” she said before hanging up. Connor stared at the silent phone for a few seconds before putting it away. 

His symptoms continued to get worse, just like the doctor had said. But there more he tried to convince himself that what she’d said was true--that it would get better--the more he found himself believing that it wouldn’t. What was worse was now he knew what his body had been craving. Red Ice. He picked up Dr. Miller’s card again and his hand shook. Embarrassment burns hot in his stomach: he doesn’t want to call again. 

He should do as she said. He should check into a program. But the thought struck a bitter note within him. Why wasn’t he strong enough? Why couldn’t he just be  _ enough _ to do this without help? If his mother were here...she’d be disappointed. Don’t rely on others, she’d said. Serve them, use them,  _ don’t  _ trust them. 

Connor grits his teeth and clenches his fists until his nails carve bloody crescents into his palms. 

⬩⬩⬩

It’s just to get rid of the withdrawal, he told himself. Just this once. 

He just needs a reprieve. Just a second without the jackhammer in his head, a minute without his skin on fire. 

He didn’t need to go online for information, something he doubted would be a good idea anyway, browser history was easier to get your hands on than a fistful of air these days, and he didn’t know if Amanda’s computer had protections. He already knew where to go--for this and a number of other illegal items. 

Drugs, firearms, black market goods, Connor had a shocking and intimate knowledge of all things crime in Detroit. Crime statistics for every neighborhood in the city, as well as some from the surrounding areas, scrolled through his mind's eye unbidden. He chanted them under his breath as he walked. 

“ _ 12 murders in the last year, 41% solve rate... _ ”

“ _ High chance of burglary, 5 convicts living in the nearby area. Fake ID dealer... _ ”

“ _ Known for human prostitution, 4 arrests in the past week... _ ”

“ _ Illegal android reprogramming and hijacking.. _ .”

The last one made Connor frown and he steered clear. As he wandered further into the sordid metropolis of Detroit, his hackles both rose and lowered. On the one hand, the seedy neighborhoods were becoming increasingly dangerous and run down. On the other hand, something was reassuring about the way it was becoming more human as well. Down here androids were scarce, people couldn’t afford them or didn’t trust them or both, and the ones that were were in pieces, being sold bit by bit. 

This crime watch thing of his was a strange, obsessive hobby, apparently, but one that was serving him well. 

The straps of his backpack gripped tightly in his fists, Connor steeled himself as he approached the building he was looking for. It was so small it could barely be considered a house--more of a shed if anything. The walls were not actually walls but several pieces of sheet metal that had been propped up between the concrete foundations of two other buildings. Tarps and planks of wood had been draped across the top to form the ramshackle roof. Ducking under the low “door” Connor entered.

There were no less than half a dozen people cramped inside, leaning against walls and sprawled across the floor. Connor spotted a discarded Red Ice dispenser in the hand of one unconscious man and noticed a faint red mist coming from the man’s mouth with each exhale. The rest of the shack’s occupants were in similar states, blinking with glazed, unseeing eyes or passed out. Only one man inside was aware enough for Connor to approach.

Propped against the far “wall,” the man had a dirty beanie pulled over his eyes and was taking periodic puffs on his dispenser. Connor nudged the man with his foot. 

Lethargically, the man pulled the beanie off his eyes and looked up at Connor. The man’s eyes were foggy and rimmed with red but more alert by far than those of anyone else in the place. 

“Benjamin Harlowe?” Connor asked.

“No,” the man said and then coughed out a cloud of red mist. “ _ Leo _ .” 

Connor waited until the man had stopped coughing to ask, “Where’s Harlowe?”

The man opened his mouth to answer but coughed again, instead he pointed with a shaky hand towards the passed out man by the entrance.  _ Benjamin Harlowe, convicted several years back for possession with intent to distribute.  _

Connor shook the identified man, sighing when no response came. “Wake up, Harlowe,” he demanded and slapped the man across the face, hard.

Harlowe woke with a start, flailing slightly. “W-what! What’s your problem man.” 

In place of answering, Connor waved a wad of cash in front of the man’s face. He’d taken a short detour to the atm before coming here. He’d thought it a safe assumption that drug dealers wouldn’t have palm scanners like the hospital or taxi service. 

“Yeah, fuck, whatever,” grunted Harlowe, producing a couple of packets and a dispenser from his inside jacket pocket and snatching Connor’s money. He counted it lazily before taking another huff of Red Ice and squeezing his eyes shut again.

Connor carefully tucked the packets and dispenser into his backpack and left. He was heading up a set of stone steps on his way back to the main street when a voice called out behind him.

“Hey, man, wait!” 

Connor turned with a frown, expecting Harlowe. He’d paid in full and was ready to win a fight against the other man if he tried to claim otherwise. Connor was here to get rid of his withdrawal, not to get scammed. But instead of Harlowe, it was the beanie-wearing junkie, Leo. 

Connor waited on the steps as Leo ran to catch up with him. “Hey, uh,” Leo panted, “I know this is a weird request, but can I, like, crash with you?”

Connor’s face must have screwed up because Leo threw his hands up, backtracking, “Just for a few days, I mean. You can say no, I’m not looking to get shived, but uh, my current pad is a bit...overcrowded as you could see.” 

Connor gave Leo a quick look down, taking in the man’s strange appearance. His clothes, though filthy, appeared to be on the expensive side in terms of quality. He was young, too, about Connor’s age if not a few years younger. Clearly, his was someone from strange circumstances--a runaway maybe. 

Then Connor thought about his big, empty house and sniffed. “Sure, just don’t steal from me.”

Leo’s face lit up in a wide smile, “Sweet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Miller: What do you have?  
> Connor: An addiction!  
> Dr. Miller: NO!
> 
> [A wild Leo has appeared!]


	4. Philosophizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whole Leo chapter! In which, Leo's motivations are dubious and he really wishes he knew what Connor's were.
> 
> Warnings: Drug use

Leo was elated, absolutely gleeful. He’d planned on going to his dad’s later today for money and dread at the occasion had been eating into him all day. He’d needed funds for a new place, clean clothes, and, of course, Red Ice, but he’d asked for money just two weeks ago. He didn’t know what had happened to it. Fifty percent chance it was stolen, fifty percent chance he smoked it. 

But then the angel had appeared! Or the  _ idiot,  _ more likely. Now Leo had a place for a while and hopefully access to some money as well. Despite Connor’s request that he not be robbed, which Leo had never actually verbally agreed to, Leo absolutely planned on stealing from Connor. And as Leo saw it, the fault was Connor’s completely for being too trusting. 

So he was feeling good. But as time went on his joy slowly faded away and was replaced by paranoia. 

Leo first began to become suspicious when after half an hour of walking they still hadn’t arrived at Connor’s place. 

“How far away do you live, anyway?” he asked the other man, who seemed to have a permanent scowl.

Connor glanced back at him and shrugged, “I wasn’t really paying attention to the time.” 

Leo gaped but was given no further explanation. Soon after he realized that Connor was muttering to himself as they walked, eyes darting between various buildings as he murmured. Subtly as he could, Leo inched closer to hear what Connor was saying. When he was close enough to step on Connor’s heels he strained to listen.

“... market...arrest..” Leo leaned in even closer, holding his breath. “...salvage his organs…”

Leo froze abruptly.  _ What the fuck _ ? Connor turned slowly and fixed him with an even stare. “Something wrong?” The steely-eyed man asked. All at once, he recalled his middle school science class; they had pinned down the fetal piglet by its wrist and ankle joints before cutting it open, carefully removing and identifying the different organs. Leo had thought it was brilliant at the time, cutting his pig with maybe too much fervor and laughing at all of his teary-eyed classmates. After removing the piglet’s heart he’d even touted it around the room to gross out the others. Now he didn’t find it so entertaining. He imagined looking up at Connor from the specimen’s point of view and his stomach lurched.

Leo gulped and took a subconscious step back, shaking visibly. “N-Nothing…”

Connor smiled then and Leo was taken aback. The smile transformed Connor’s whole face, instantly erasing the harsh lines and severe scowl and replacing them with freckles and dimples. It was unnerving. “Just kidding. I noticed you listening to me. It was a joke.”

“O-Oh,” Leo laughed uneasily, “good to know.” 

Connor turned back around and kept walking. Leo followed, though more hesitantly than before. He wrung his hands slightly. He considered just leaving, something about Connor made him nervous. But then he remembered how cold it got in Detroit at night and swallowed his reluctance with a determined nod. He was tough, he just needed a place for a while. He’d need to keep an eye on his temporary “roommate” was all. But after another fifteen minutes of walking, Leo began to get annoyed again. What was up with this guy? Was this some kind of elaborate ruse?

“Seriously, man,” he said, “My feet hurt like a bitch. Are we close yet?” He was a couple of seconds away from bolting. 

Connor lifted his head to scan the street, by now they were in a middle-lower class commercial area. A few convenience stores and other such storefronts flashed their cheap neon signs from their worn-down street corners. “Not really? I was a bit out of it when I came out, I guess I wasn’t thinking about distance then.”

“You…,” Leo drawled, “Look man...maybe I should just go. I can probably figure something else out.”

Connor gave him a casual look, “If you want...although, I think we can probably get a cab from here.” Then Connor set off across the street. Leo glanced around and realized with no small amount of edginess that he had no idea where he was. With no other real choice, he chased Connor towards a car/taxi rental port. 

He caught up with Connor as the man was confirming a request for a standard cab and pressing his palm against the scanner. “You have an AAI account?” 

Connor turned to him, confused, “Double-A what?”

Leo made a face at the other man, “Automatic Authorization of Identity? AAI?” Leo almost laughed when Connor’s face showed no recognition. “That’s what it’s called when you pay with your handprint, idiot. You know, instead of using paper money?”

AAI’s were becoming increasingly popular due to their efficiency, especially amongst the upper-middle and upper classes. They were harder to hack than traditional accounts and android-proof since they required a warm handprint. But they cost money and time to set up and more suspicious people (or those involved in illegal activities) tended to avoid them since it required your finger and palm prints to be added into an open database. Government employees and law enforcement were automatically registered for AAI’s but most people still used paper money. Leo had one set up by his father but hardly ever used it as there was seldom money in it. 

“Oh, yes,” said Connor, “I only brought enough physical money for...you know.” he purposefully adjusted his bag on his shoulder, reminding them of the  _ controversial cargo _ in their possessions. 

“Right,” Leo said awkwardly. 

When the cab rolled up, Connor pressed his hand to the scanner again to prove his purchase and put in an address. The ride was awkward but the awkwardness seemed one-sided. Connor sat easily on his side of the cab, calm except for when he turned to glare out the window at something or other. 

Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the changing scenery outside so that he wouldn’t have been so shocked when they arrived. When the cab pulled up at Connor’s place, Leo was floored. When he’d asked the other junkie to crash with him he’d expected some hole in the wall, a fridge would have been a pleasant surprise, a sink would have been a miracle. In his state, a mattress  _ and  _ a blanket was a luxury. This was...something else.

The place was so large the two of them could live in it at the same time and never have to see each other. He lamely followed Connor in and wondered what kind of ridiculous circumstances could have led Connor to someplace like this. Could he have stolen it somehow? Killed the old person who lived here and buried them in the backyard?

Standing in the huge house’s foyer, Leo struggled to fathom why Connor had agreed to let him stay. Then he remembered Connor’s “joke” from earlier and felt a fresh wave of paranoia wash over him. What if this  _ had _ been some sort of ruse. 

What if Connor was a serial killer; one who’d just successfully lured him (the perfect victim, a druggie who wouldn’t be missed) to his secluded property to kill him? He gripped backpack straps so tightly he thought he could hear his knuckles creaking. He waited for Connor to approach or try to lure him deeper into the house, but Connor ignored him in favor of putting around the living room. 

Despite this, Leo stayed on guard for several hours, staying at least ten feet away from his host at all times. But Connor didn’t even speak to Leo unless being spoken to first.

Serial killer theory not completely discarded, Leo had another thought. What if Connor knew who he was? Maybe he planned to try and get in Leo’s favor for money? No, he thought, glancing around, the place was huge. Despite its state of disrepair, Connor didn’t seem incredibly pressed for funds. Besides, him being Carl’s son was more or less a secret. Not technically a secret, you could find a picture of his high-school self and his father with a quick internet search, but the young, cleaned-up boy in that picture was almost indistinguishable from him now. The media had no interest in a kid who’s only real connection to the great Carl Manfred was a last name and the periodic money donation. 

He tried anyway and asked, “Do you know who Carl Manfred is?” 

Connor looked up from what he was doing, shaking a packet of Red Ice into his dispenser, “Should I?” 

Leo would have laughed if it weren't for the lingering fear that Connor might gut him and sell his organs. First, he doesn’t even know what his own bank account is, now this? His dad was super famous: one of the last popular human artists. With androids capable of creating perfect replicas of famous art pieces, artwork was losing value at astronomical rates. “Where have you been, dude?” 

Connor wrinkled his face, “College?” It sounded like a question. Like he wasn’t  _ sure _ he’d been at college. Connor’s hands shook horribly as he slid the dispenser’s compressed canister into place.

“Damn, you’ve really fucked yourself good, haven’t you?” He was mildly impressed, even  _ he  _ hadn’t messed around with the Red Ice  _ that  _ much. 

“It seems so,” Connor said with a complicated look on his face, something between confusion and annoyance, “My memories are a bit...scrambled. You know that feeling when you think something happened but it might have been a dream? Like that, but everything.” 

“Damn.” 

“Well, not  _ everything _ , Connor corrected, “I’ve retained my oddly extensive knowledge of crime statistics, mechanical engineering, and oddly enough--chemistry.” Connor said “mechanical engineering” with such distaste that Leo couldn’t help but ask about it. When he did, Connor just scowled and clarified “ _ android _ engineering.” Ha, that Leo could understand. He thought of Markus, his father's special little caretaker, and felt a flash of anger. He hated those damn things.

Instead of commenting, he asked, “Chemistry?” Connor, too, looked relieved by the topic change. “Mm, yes, I think I might have been a chemistry major...in  _ college _ . Apparently, I tried to spite my mother by not actually learning anything  _ useful _ at college.” 

“Seriously? Chemistry isn’t useful?” Leo asked.

Connor raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “I suppose, though I doubt any laboratories will hire a college dropout just because he  _ mysteriously _ knows how to isolate hydrogen.”

“That sounds...dangerous.”

“It can be.” After that, the conversation lapsed into silence. Leo found himself fidgeting once again, he shouldn't have come here. Whatever Connor’s deal was it was clear that he wasn’t your everyday junkie and Leo valued his own life just enough that he wasn’t going to stick around to figure out what it was. He would steal some shit and bolt.

Connor took a puff of Red Ice and coughed, his eyes watering. After a few seconds and a few shallow breaths, Connor started to show the drug’s effect. His eyes took on a sheen and while his face became red he calmed visibly, his face finally losing its ever-present scowl. 

Leo waited until Connor leaned back and closed his eyes, seeming to wander off, before sneaking off. Now that Connor’s guard was down, Leo could scrounge for anything valuable. A house of this size was bound to have  _ something _ worth selling. 

He started with the first floor but was disappointed to find most of the rooms empty. It reminded him oddly of his father’s house, only lifeless. Even though Carl Manfred was the only living being in that huge manor of his it always  _ felt  _ lively. Paintings everywhere, taxidermy animals, bright open windows, quirky furnishings, even those damnable little bots his father kept around made the house feel full. Lived in. Here the furniture was sparse, the windows coated with dust, and everything a dull, grey color. 

Leo wondered if this was how Carl’s house would look after the man died. 

He wandered down a hallway that was identical to the last, scanning each room he passed for drawers or chests to rummage through. He found some old engineering textbooks in a box under one of the beds and decided to flip through a few of them. The complicated diagrams were lost on Leo but whoever had scribbled notes in all of the slim margins seemed to have understood it well enough. Looking at the inside cover, Leo found the name  _ Connor _ written in the same cramped handwriting as the notes in the rest of the book. Discarding the book with a snort, Leo stood. At least now he knew Connor had been telling the truth, but he still didn’t have anything of value. Used textbooks didn’t sell for much, even paper ones. 

He found a couple more interesting rooms. One with a bay window that overlooked the backward where a greenhouse sat, one large one with nothing in it but an old piano, and one with discolored spots on the far wall as if the whole thing had, at one point, been covered floor to ceiling with picture frames. But nothing sellable. 

He was beginning to lose hope when at last he came to the end of one hallway and looked up to find an attic door. He yanked the pull string and an old-fashioned ladder slid down. Leo eagerly climbed up and into the attic. 

It was huge. Unlike most houses, the attic there was almost its own floor. The low, slanted ceiling forced Leo to crouch as he waded through the mountains of stuff. Judging by the sheer amount of boxes crammed into the attic, Leo figured that most if not all of the house’s missing things were up here. 

Going through the boxes was an odd experience. It was as if years worth of history, of  _ life _ , had been shoved up there to collect dust and be forgotten. He found books and newspaper clippings and photographs. He found odd little trinkets and five of the same boring lamp. He found several lanyards of artificial pine which he figured for vintage Christmas decorations. Just by going through her things, Leo gained an uncomfortable understanding of Connor’s mother. For one, she was stiff and boring as fuck. For real, who owns  _ that  _ many grayscale pieces of furniture? She was also a prideful woman. Leo could tell as much from the number of magazine and newspaper cutouts about herself were there. Most of the odd trinkets appeared to be from students of hers, some of them had little messages to Ms. Stern written on them.

Then he found it. Halfway to the back of the attic were a couple of wood and leather chests with the initials A.S. on the top in gold. Inside, Leo found the eccentric wardrobe of one Amanda Starn and, most importantly, her jewelry. 

Pulling out the necklaces and bracelets, Leo held them up to the dim light. He wasn’t an expert but they looked pretty damn real. A wide grin split his face and, in a flight of fancy, he put the jewelry on. The gems were heavy on his neck and wrists but even in the low light they sparkled, and Leo gave a tentative twirl. The adornments clinked satisfyingly against each other. Leo had never been one for frivolity, even during the brief period where he could afford it, but he could understand how some people got so attached to things like jewelry. Leo felt really fucking  _ pretty _ . 

Glancing down at the brightly colored vestments in the chest, Leo picked one out and put that on as well. It was a loose teal coat with geometric designs that faded from yellow to green. Clearly meant to be oversized on a smaller woman, the garment fit nicely on Leo. 

He spun around the attic a few more times. After that, he took to strutting up and down the length of the attic as if on a runway, posing intermittently and blowing kisses to an imaginary audience. 

“Thank you, thank you,” he crooned at nobody. 

The floor of the attic creaked loudly with each step he took, and he didn’t hear Connor coming up the ladder until he turned, hands on his hips, and came face to face with the scowling master of the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter, yes, but I just couldn't resist the cliffhanger. Sue me.
> 
> I keep accidentally getting distracted from the plot by dumb shit like world-building and character development. Smh.


End file.
